


the good stuff

by lynnpaper (27beansprouts)



Series: togruta, negotiator and human disaster [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Injury, M/M, No Angst, Whump, anakin skywalker lives for only one purpose and that is to be a punching bag, it's wholesome i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27beansprouts/pseuds/lynnpaper
Summary: Anakin knows pain. He’s lost an arm, for kriff’s sake. He’s experienced enough injuries to empty an entire medical storage cabinet of the Halls of Healing.But this?This is new. This is so much worse.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: togruta, negotiator and human disaster [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129013
Comments: 17
Kudos: 146





	the good stuff

**Author's Note:**

> back to my usual shenanigans :D

Anakin knows pain. He’s lost an _arm_ , for kriff’s sake. He’s experienced enough injuries to empty an entire medical storage cabinet of the Halls of Healing.

But this?

This is new. This is so much worse.

He faintly remembers being thrown into a wall. He doesn’t recall who it was, but he was tired and occupied and distracted by the warmth of the air around him and the heat of the battle, and his movements were sluggish and lethargic, and only when he hit solid brick and literally felt something _shatter_ in his chest did he realise he’d flown twenty feet through the air and crashed right into the side of a building.

He’d hobbled back to the starfighter, having mercifully avoided the end of the fight when the clones had arrived, and attempted to stick a bacta patch over his side without looking — knowing if he looked he would probably throw up, and that injuries always looked worse than they really were. 

Which leads him here, sitting on the couch, bacta patches discarded once he’d used them, unable to replace them as he didn’t nick enough from the medbay the first time. He hoped to spend a day in his quarters, resting, recovering. That day stretched into another, and another after that, and now Obi-Wan is back from his own mission, wanting nothing more than for Anakin to snuggle up to him as he always does, maybe have sex, cuddle, all that good stuff.

Anakin forces himself to breathe normally as Obi-Wan drops onto the couch beside him, the sudden movement of the couch cushions jostling his ribs. Obi-Wan slides an arm around Anakin’s middle and Anakin’s breath hitches. But he doesn’t tug him possessively against his side, unlike the way Anakin would have hoped he would at any other time. Nor does he slip a hand under his tunic to stroke his bare skin, because by _god_ Anakin would probably be screaming in pain if he did.

 _This is fine_ , Anakin thinks. _It’s not that bad._

And then Obi-Wan tightens his arms around his chest to pull him closer, and Anakin very nearly blacks out from the sheer agony of that pressure on his mangled ribs. He can’t stop the sharp cry that chokes out of his mouth, nor his instinctive reaction to grab the hand around his midsection and tear it away from the fabric of his tunic like he can tear his nerves out of his body.

Obi-Wan jerks away like he’s just touched an open flame. Which is not too far off from how Anakin’s ribs feel. The reaction is momentary, and once the moment of shock passes, Obi-Wan knows. Knows that Anakin has been hiding an injury, and is fully prepared to give him hell for it. After, of course, the injury is dealt with.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, genuine concern soaking his voice, forehead creased. “Show me.”

“It’s not that bad,” Anakin grits out. It is that bad. It’s so much worse. But he cannot — will not — admit it to Obi-Wan, because that will guarantee him a trip to the Healers, and the last thing he needs is someone else poking and prodding at his ribs, or — Force forbid — forcing him to rest.

Some bacta would be nice, though. He would kill for some bacta.

Obi-Wan frowns, swatting Anakin’s hand away when he tries to block Obi-Wan from touching his chest. “You should have gone to the Healers,” Obi-Wan says bluntly. Anakin clenches his teeth, letting out a shuddering breath, one hand pressed to his side. Obi-Wan pries Anakin’s fingers from where they are clenched around his ribs. “Obi-Wan, stop,” Anakin says meekly, but he knows it’s no use. Obi-Wan is practically tearing at his tunic, so rough yet so gentle as he peels the cloth away.

With his eyes closed, Anakin cannot see the expression on Obi-Wan’s face, but he hears the harsh intake of breath, the forced exhale, feels the feather-light touch of fingertips skimming over the splotches of angry crimson and purple which he knows for sure mottle his skin.

“They’re broken, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says simply, something like angry disappointment lacing his tone.

Anakin doesn’t open his eyes. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. He’d suspected they were broken from when he’d been thrown against that brick wall, but the crack of his bones had sounded so much like the crack of the concrete breaking that he’d dismissed it as heavy bruising. Even now, he tries to convince himself to deny Obi-Wan’s assumption, but as stubborn as he is, he cannot ignore the way every breath feels like shards of glass are being pushed slowly into his lungs.

And twisted, for good measure.

“Okay,” Anakin says, not surprised at all, but he struggles just to get the word out. He can’t breathe, he realises. He’s so tired but his heart is racing.

“Anakin, we have to get you to the Healers,” Obi-Wan says, more frantic now. Obi-Wan is never frantic.

Anakin opens his mouth to speak, make some witty retort — even though he knows this is a fight he cannot win — but the only sound which comes out is a dry, hacking cough, and the hand he quickly claps over his mouth comes away bloody.

Obi-Wan’s eyes grow wide. Anakin continues coughing.

Obi-Wan rushes to the commlink on the wall, and Anakin knows he’s going to end up in the Halls of Healing. Anakin wants to scream at him to leave it, but he’s coughing up what seems like half the blood in his body, and his ribs feel like someone’s put them through a blender, and he’s definitely in trouble when — if — he survives this.

The room is suddenly quiet. Obi-Wan whips his head around to find Anakin slumped over the side of the couch, a trail of blood dribbling from his mouth, just as the receiver picks up on the other end.

“Get me Vokara Che,” Obi-Wan all but yells into the commlink. “ _Now!_ ”

* * *

The Halls of Healing are Anakin’s least favourite place in the galaxy for several reasons. One, the sickly smell of bacta does wonders to aid his temptation to hurl. Two, he always ends up getting yelled at, or lectured, or given the silent treatment here, _especially_ when he’s the one lying immobile on a bed.

Anakin blinks blearily, Vokara Che’s face coming into view. “Ah. He’s awake,” she says. She doesn’t sound very happy about that, but Anakin knows she’s relieved. She shows affection in the form of firm but kind scolding, and sometimes an armful of bacta and medication.

Just as he expects, Vokara Che frowns disapprovingly at him. “You are very reckless, Knight Skywalker,” she admonishes. Then, addressing somebody he can’t see from his position on the bed — “Master Kenobi. You may enter.”

Oh, _kriff_.

Master Che starts to walk out, but pauses just as she reaches the door. “Kenobi. He listens to you, yes?” She doesn’t wait for Obi-Wan to reply, even though it’s definitely a resounding _no_. “Convince him to stay in bed, because I know he won’t listen to me.” She glances at Anakin, who still hasn’t fully woken from his stupidity-induced nap. “And no physical exertion of any form for the next two weeks.”

Anakin stifles his cough, failing miserably and hacking a few times into his fist.

“Make that three,” she says, and walks out.

Obi-Wan enters the room, bags under his eyes a little too prominent for Anakin’s liking. He’s got the look on his face that practically screams _lecture time!_ at Anakin. He drops into the chair by Anakin’s bedside, folding his arms on the backrest.

“So,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “Care to tell me why you hid the fact that your ribs were broken for _three days_?”

Anakin swallows, and winces right after when the motion jostles his newly-healed bones.

“I’m not expecting a very good excuse, because this by far one of the _stupidest_ things I’ve ever witnessed from you,” Obi-Wan continues, before Anakin can open his mouth.

Anakin’s head is fuzzy from the cocktail of drugs they’ve probably put him on. He wants to respond, perhaps with a witty remark or quip, if only to prove to Obi-Wan that’s he’s fine, and that the injury wasn’t as bad as they made it out to be — but the fact that he can’t think straight even with painkillers flowing through his veins is evidence enough that the injury was just as bad if not worse.

“I suppose you’ll want to know the extent of the damage,” Obi-Wan says, much too calmly for Anakin not to be suspicious. “You broke three ribs and fractured two more. One of them punctured your lung —“

Anakin recalls coughing up all that blood. _Huh_ , he thinks. _That explains it._

“— and caused you to inhale your own blood. Which could have suffocated you, if the Healers hadn’t gotten to you sooner.”

There’s a feeling of deja vu, somebody reading out an extensive list of his injuries by his side as he lies incapacitated on a medbay bed. Anakin has lost track of how many times he’s landed himself in this position.

“You could have died,” Obi-Wan says, much too composed for Anakin’s liking.

Of course. Obi-Wan is probably desensitised to this. Anakin almost laughs at how often he’s heard that from Obi-Wan. 

“It’s part of the job,” Anakin croaks. It’s the first thing he’s said since waking up.

“Don’t play the hero, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says in response.

* * *

Three days later, Vokara Che discharges Anakin, rather reluctantly — insisting it would only do him good to rest for two days more — but with a hint at resignation at knowing Anakin’s iconic eagerness to get himself gravely injured or killed.

When Obi-Wan returns to his quarters, he finds Anakin lying on the couch, boots discarded and thrown hastily onto the floor by the entrance, robes draped messily over the backrest. Anakin’s eyes are shut tight, and he periodically screws up his forehead in discomfort, shifting his position on the couch.

Anakin glances blearily at Obi-Wan as he walks in, turning his head ever so slightly. His eyes are cloudy and glazed over, either from drugs or pain. Or both.

“How do you feel?” Obi-Wan asks, making his way to the couch.

Anakin groans, a reply as good as any.

“How are the ribs?”

“They fucking hurt,” Anakin deadpans. The painkillers they gave him have not taken effect. At all.

Obi-Wan moves beside Anakin and carefully lifts his tunic. Even _that_ provokes a wince, as gentle as he tries to be.

Obi-Wan tries to push down his nausea as the discoloured skin of Anakin’s chest comes into view. The edges of the bruises have turned a sickly yellow, but at least they’re not red and inflamed anymore.

“Is it bad?” Anakin mumbles, a hand thrown over his eyes.

“Your ribs are broken, Anakin. Of course it’s bad.”

“Not broken anymore,” Anakin says, reaching for Obi-Wan’s fingers where they have not ceased their delicate tracing and pulling them to his lips so he can kiss his knuckles, gazing at Obi-Wan through his lashes. Obi-Wan hums quietly, moving his hand to cup Anakin’s cheek, and Anakin leans into his touch, turning his head to press his lips against Obi-Wan’s palm, never breaking eye contact.

Obi-Wan sighs good-naturedly. “If you’re trying to seduce me —“

“M’not trying to seduce you.”

“— it’s working,” he huffs, brushing Anakin’s hair back from where it has fallen into his eyes.

Anakin grins tiredly, reaching out to Obi-Wan with both hands. Obi-Wan moves closer, and Anakin touches his jaw, running his thumb over Obi-Wan’s lips.

“You’re pretty,” Anakin says, scratching gently at Obi-Wan’s neck.

Obi-Wan gently pries Anakin’s fingers off, holding them carefully in his own.

“You’re high,” he remarks, noting Anakin’s glazed-over, expression. “What do they have you on?”

“Load of painkillers,” Anakin slurs. “The good stuff. Supposed to be the good stuff. Not working,” he complains. “Metabolism’s too fast.”

Obi-Wan feels a tinge of sympathy at that.

“Hurts like crap,” he adds, reaching for Obi-Wan’s jaw again.

“I’m sure it does,” Obi-Wan replies, sympathetic.

Anakin is silent for a moment, his eyes closed, as he swallows thickly, groaning softly. Obi-Wan can’t help but cringe as he imagines how Anakin must feel right now, utterly indisposed and helpless to fight against the trauma he’s had to suffer.

When Obi-Wan speaks again, his voice is kinder. “Do you want me to put you to sleep?” he asks, lifting a hand, ready to place it on Anakin’s forehead.

“Yes, please,” Anakin whispers hoarsely, and Obi-Wan’s heart cracks in two at the utter anguish and raw vulnerability in Anakin’s voice. He is completely sober, Obi-Wan realises, the painkillers obviously having almost no effect. He wonders if they were even strong enough in the first place.

Obi-Wan lays his hand on Anakin’s forehead, bending down to kiss his temple. It only takes a word, a nudge in the Force, and Anakin’s head lolls to the side, face finally going slack in the blissful absence of pain. Obi-Wan picks up Anakin’s robe from where it lies on the backrest, draping it over the length of his body like a makeshift blanket.

When Ahsoka returns from her classes just as the sun is beginning to dip in the sky, she finds Obi-Wan cross-legged on the floor by the couch, reading from a datapad. He lifts a finger to his lips when he hears her come in, and mouths _food in the fridge_ , gesturing to Anakin’s still body on the couch. Ahsoka follows his gaze to her master’s sleeping form. She nods, eyes wide and understanding, and goes straight to her room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> when will they realise that this series exists for the sole purpose of me smashing my favourite trio into small pieces and then attempting to put them back together with a glue stick?
> 
> not soon, i pray 
> 
>   
> (find me on tumblr as [lynnpaper](https://lynnpaper.tumblr.com/)!)


End file.
